Fill In For Me
by Light8mare
Summary: The countries are all so bright and happy. And yet they've gone through so much. How could they remain sane through so many genocides and wars? So much violence? So much chaos? Perhaps it wasn't them facing that. Perhaps it was another side that did. A less "stable" side.
1. Chapter 1

He felt like he was floating.

When he climbed the stairs. That's how it felt.

Floating.

Was it better than drifting? Or fading?

He wasn't sure.

But it felt nice.

A nice change. That's how he knew that what he was doing was right.

He smiled as he looked down. A nice view. Why didn't he come here more?

Unimportant. He had a job.

He hopped up onto the ledge, spread his arms wide, as if he were trying to encircle the whole town, or maybe the whole country, and looked down.

So many people. His people. All so busy. All so wound up in their lives that they wouldn't look up at the funny man standing on top of the building.

The man about to jump.

_Not time yet, _he reminded himself. _Not ready yet._

And then... It was.

And he rocked just the slightest bit forward and let gravity take over and drag him.

Down, down down.

He could remember that brilliant line from that one TV show, that one really popular one that one of his own had created.

"_Falling is just like flying... Only with a more permanent destination."_

Fortunantly for England, he was the exception to this rule.

Even while he was lying awkwardly over the pavement, blood running over the concrete like watercolors on paper, bones turned to tiny glass shards by the impact, he was the exception.

Just like all his fellow countries.

Emergency services showed up. People were everywhere, panicking.

He was loaded onto the vehicle and driven away without a siren.

When he woke up, America was leaning over him, watching him.

He was upset.

"Oh Artie... Don't tell me it's happening again."

England just smiles at him. It was.

Tears were running down his face now. England stops smiling.

Tears weren't good. America might become like him. That was bad. It wasn't time for that, no not at all.

England reaches up slowly from the hospital bed and tries to wipe the tears away with his stiff fingers.

America smiles sadly and chokes softly on his crying. "I know. I shouldn't. I get it Oliver."

England just smiles back silently, his blue and pink marbled eyes watching America contain his grief.

It was going to be ok.


	2. Chapter 2

"Hullo chaps!"

Everyone in the meeting frowns, confused for a moment, till they really look at the Brit.

"Ah. I see," Japan says quietly, his eyes running over the faintly orange-tinted hair and the swirl of pink and blue in his eyes.

England just smiles cheerfully at them, oblivious to the tension brought to the room by his presence. America appears behind him and pulls him in towards a seat.

"'E swapped? But why?" France asks America, who just shrugs.

"Could be economy, could be the fourth coming up, could be something with his government, heck if I know." America answers in an unusually subdued tone. "I just got a call from his doctor saying he was at the hospital cuz he jumped off a building."

"'Jumped off a building'? So it's likely not an outside force causing zis, correct?" Germany states and America nods.

Germany stands with a sigh. "Until we understand zeh problem better, we should continue zeh meeting as normal."

The others agree, though just ten minutes in it's clearly not going to remain a 'normal meeting'. After all, the appearance of a second player tends to give rise to bad memories for all of them.

The former Axis all unconsciously separated themselves from everyone. Both Italys had become withdrawn with matching dark expressions. Prussia, who had snuck in earlier, was watching Germany with concern, who had adopted a haunted look. France and China had become sullen and Spain shifted around uncomfortably in his seat. Even Russia's smile waned into a pressed line.

Over all, nothing dimmed their spirits faster than the memories of their double personalities.

All throughout the meeting, England sits contentedly, eating pink cupcakes with one hand clasped in America's while the other stared distantly at a wall.

_How, _America wondered, _could this have happened under our noses? What was so bad that he couldn't handle it?_

America didn't know. And, he realized, he didn't want to know.

#.+

The meeting ended early when Russia, face blank, stands and walks out.

"Germany?"

The blond turns to see a teary Italian tugging at his sleeve. "Ja?"

"Can I come visit? ... Or, you could visit me..." Italy suggests. Germany sighs softly, knowing that the his friend wanted the comfort of having him there, despite the fact that he could do very little to protect Italy from what he feared.

"Nein I'm afraid," he tells him. "East insists ve go now. I can tell he vants to be alone, but he needs me there."

"Oh..." Italy's face falls. "That's... I understand."

Germany dips his head in a nod, then walks away, leaving the forlorn Italian alone.

For a split second, Italy considers going to Romano for comfort. But that second is only that, and he quickly pushes away the idea.

No. Going to his brother at this time was a very bad idea.

So Northern Italy slinks out and walks home alone. He arrives to find the house predictably empty, as South had stayed his predictable self and stuck with Spain. He'd walked extra slow because of that, just to assure himself that Romano would have arrived first had he been coming at all.

Nope. Veneziano was alone.

Because Germany and his brother needed each other. Because Romano needed Spain. Because Japan had probably already retreated into solitary, and wouldn't come out until he put aside the memories of his darker half. Because no one else could deal with a helpless, useless country right then.

Italy shakes his head hard.

No. He couldn't think like that. He had to find an outlet for his depression. There was, after all, no need to risk hurting the others further.

So he slowly climbs upstairs to the locked room.

He slides the key in and, with a turn, he finds himself in a dim, dusty art studio.

Italy shoves the old canvas off the stand and sets up a fresh one. He spills paints over an old yogurt lid and refills a dented stainless steel cup. In one cabinet he digs out a few paintbrushes, none well taken care of, but usable.

Then, with the mad rage only an unhappy artist can manage, he attacks the pale white.


End file.
